The Collectors' Society 01 (23 page)

I search for my voice, but I’ll admit to still being fixated on the whole monster creation bit.

“Sometimes,” she murmurs, “I wonder what things would have been like if I’d ever given into my impulses with Dickon. How it might be so much easier.”

My brain feels tired from all of this already. “Who is Dickon?”

“A guy.” Sadness fills her eyes. “A friend. Or was a friend, anyway.” She picks lint off her tiny black shorts. “My uncle thought he wasn’t suitable.”

“Why not?”

“Money.” Her smile is grim. “It doesn’t matter anyway, does it? He married some local girl, I left and joined the Society. Sometimes love isn’t enough.”

“No, it really isn’t.” And that’s pure honesty if I’ve ever said it.

She stands back up. “Let’s go out. Have some fun.”

Nearly an hour later, as the clock ticks toward midnight, Mary’s winsome smile has us bypassing a red velvet rope outside of what she calls, “One of New York’s best hidden treasures.” Inside, the air is heavy with sweat and the smell of alcohol, and loud music pulses so strongly that each beat supersedes that of the muscle in my chest. People are crammed into the dark space, their bodies pressed up against each other just so they can hear what the others are saying.

Is this a rave? Because, sleep definitely sounds more fun than a rave right now.

Mary rejected all the dresses in my closet (“God, you need to get over the Victorian vibe. I sure as hell did.”), so I’m wearing one of hers that is so scandalously short, it’s a miracle I can even walk without flashing my bare bum. Every few feet we cover in the club, some new man or woman comes up to me and asks rather seductively if I want a drink.

“You want a drink,” Mary yells into my ear. I’m steered toward a long, gleaming bar crowded with people flirting. I fight back a yawn, especially when Mary flicks my shoulder. “None of that!”

A
frou-frou
drink is . . . well, I honestly don’t know what’s in it. It reminds me of something the Dormouse would favor, all sickeningly sweet and almost syrupy, but the ones Mary ordered us, complete with paper umbrellas and what appears to be weird, rubbery cherries, makes her happy, so I don’t argue.

As she sucks hers down at an alarming rate, a well-dressed man sidles up to me. Over the course of the next minute, he tries his best to catch my eye.

I’m flattered, to be honest. I must be more tired than I thought.

When I finally offer him a cool smile, he asks, “You come here often?”

I nearly gag on my most recent sip. “Sorry, no.”

The man chuckles at the expression on my face. “Let me get you something better.” A hand is lifted, and the bartender sways back toward us. “Two of your best whiskeys.” He looks me up and down. “Neat.”

The moment I set the curved
frou-frou
drink down, Mary slides it toward her. She leans over me, her chin settling on my shoulder. “This is Alice! Alice is new to New York. I’m Mary.”

Subtlety is not her strong forte.

The man leans against the counter and grins at me. From what I can tell in the dim light, he’s quite handsome, with curly brown hair laced with silver threads and a cleft chin. “Welcome to New York, Alice. I’m Gabriel Lygari, but my friends call me Gabe.”

“We are not friends.”

He laughs, delighted at my flatly stated observation. “I’d like to be.” And then he sticks his hand out. I fight against the impulse to walk away and stick mine out in return. He’s got a gold ring with a flat, mottled blue stone on his pinky, and his grip is firm.

This man oozes sexual charm.

Mary whispers in my ear, “He’s hot. How much you want to bet he’s well hung, too?”

I guess I’m not the only one noticing his allure. And speaking of noticing, her whispering isn’t as quiet as she must think, because the man standing next to us coughs into his hand, his eyes twinkling.

“You a New Yorker?” Mary asks Gabe from over my shoulder.

“For now.” He nearly blinds us with gleaming white teeth.

Mary murmurs, “Well, then,” before reclaiming her (my?) drink. But, thankfully, the bartender shouts out the arrival of two whiskeys. Gabe claims them before sliding one of the small glasses toward me. And then, leaning in close, his drink aloft, he says, “May you have the hindsight to know where you’ve been, the foresight to know where you are going, and the insight to know when you have gone too far.”

Our glasses clink. The amber liquid burns in my throat, but tastes infinitely better than Mary’s
frou-frou
drink. “What is that from?”

Whiskey swirls in the glass dangling from his fingers. “It’s a traditional Irish blessing. But it seemed fitting for a British girl named Alice experiencing a new place for the first time.”

My heart trips inside my chest. “Why is that?”

“Don’t tell me you never get Alice jokes.” Gabe chuckles and leans in even farther. My head swims with warm male cologne. “Growing up, a friend’s sister was named Alice. We always teased her about the whole Wonderland thing. You know, falling down rabbit holes, going to new places, getting into trouble by sticking her nose into places she doesn’t belong, stuff like that. All the subsequent Alices I’ve ever met are adventurous sorts.”

Frabjous. I go to a modern bar and meet somebody who knows about my book within minutes.

An arm is slung over my shoulder. “Alice is all about new places and experiences.”

Alice, I think sourly, is nearly all about telling Mary that her breath smells like a carafe of spoiled wine.

The twinkles in Gabe’s eyes expand. “Is that so?”

“We should dance.” Mary slams the remains of my
frou-frou
drink down on the bar top. “Gabe, do you have any friends here?”

“Actually,” he says, “I do. They’re at a table upstairs. It was my turn to buy a round.”

“And yet, you have no round of drinks.”

Gabe smiles at my sly reflection. “Went to a bar, met a beautiful lady . . .” His head ducks in false shyness. “I think they’ll understand.”

Mary, though, isn’t listening. “Excellent.” She tugs down her equally short dress and shimmies. “Let’s go make friends, shall we?”

When she pushes her way into the crowd, Gabe leans in close so he can tell me, “Don’t worry. I won’t let anybody take advantage of her.”

Is he referring to my colleague’s rapidly accelerating inebriated state? “Don’t worry,” I reassure him in return. “Neither will I.”

Gabe tugs me through the crowd so we can catch up to a directionless Mary. When his fingers touch mine, I have to fight the impulse to recoil. It’s not that it’s a horrible feeling, or that his hand is hairy or sweaty or anything out of the ordinary, but . . . it’s just a hand. Just a palm and fingers and smooth skin that belong to a handsome man and nothing more.

And that realization leaves me more relieved than I can say.

The music pulses stronger, the volume turns louder. Bodies around us press up against one another as they slide and shiver and sway. Mixed within the strong wafts of sweat also lie the faint musky hints of sex.

Memories bombard me as we push through the throngs. Dark, underground raves filled with barely clothed people high on hookah and the Hatter’s infamous juice. Frenetic music. Flashing, glittering lights. Hands on my hips, lips against my neck and then lower still. Heat flooding me so strongly I actually exploded in the middle of the crush and no one else knew it, they were all so engrossed in their own delirium.

Somebody knocks into me, jarring me back into reality. It’s a woman with long red hair and a nose that looks like it was glued on. She glares at me before looping her arms around the man she’s with.

“You okay?”

I blink. Gabe comes back into focus as the redheaded woman fades. I offer what I hope to be a flirty smile. “Are
you
okay?”

He laughs, and I soak the sound up.

Gabe finally overtakes Mary so he can lead her up to the second floor of the club. Tables scatter around another crowded dance floor, but what has my attention is a bar just off the stairs.

“Are the drinks up here terrible?”

The man still holding my hand is confused at first, but when I nod my head toward the gleaming bar, he laughs once more. “Busted. I was with a friend, standing next to one of the railings, and I saw this gorgeous blonde woman come in, so . . .”

He doesn’t blush, but I get the impression he wishes he could, simply to up his charm factor.

“Your penance for lying is another whiskey,” I tell him.

Another burst of laughter escapes him. “I like your style.”

Fresh drinks in all our hands, Gabe leads us over to a table filled with three other men and an ethereal woman who practically glows, she’s so delicate and pale. They all stand as soon as we arrive, and before I know it, Mary has planted herself in one of their laps under the guise that there simply aren’t enough chairs.

Perhaps I’m old-fashioned, but I can’t help but wonder about Victor. I know she’s hurting, but this?

As she leans over to grab her drink, I discreetly duck my head toward the man she’s with. “Treat my friend improperly, and you will be a eunuch before sunrise.”

She nearly falls off his lap at the strength of his flinch.

Three—or is it four?—additional whiskeys later, I’m on the dance floor with Gabe. He’s a good dancer, but he talks too much. I tune him out and tune in the music, letting my body learn the beats. My head swims from the alcohol. Things blur. More memories bombard me, and for the first time in months, I feel . . . normal.

Well, Wonderlandian normal, at least.

We’re hip to hip, and my arms are above my head and his hands are dangerously close to my breasts. I can feel his interest in me growing, we’re pressed so closely together.

And then a flash of white-tipped black hair floats across my field of vision.

I’m blinking, trying to focus even as Gabe’s mouth lowers until his lips curve around my earlobe. Tiny darts of heat pluck at me, tempting me back under the lull of alcohol, but no.

There.

Pale woman. Wild, dark curly hair dipped in white snow. The one in the photograph with Todd.

I search for Mary. She’s still on what’s-his-name’s lap, appearing as if she’s telling a story. So far, he’s kept his hands to himself. And she has, too.

I startle out of Gabe’s arms. “I—” But I don’t finish it. I simply leave him on the dance floor as I push my way through the gyrating crowd. Where did she go? I hear my name behind me, brushes of fingertips as I keep moving, but I don’t stop.

I need to find her. Find her, find Todd.

I break out of the dance floor, but there’s no fresh air to clear my mind. Just more people mingling with their drinks. Where did she go?

Flash of white and black to my right, alongside glowing skulls against a dark backdrop. Toward a set of a different set of stairs. I’m halfway there when I hear my name again, colored with shock.

But it’s not Mary. It’s not Gabe.

It’s Finn.

This time, I halt. He’s at a table near the railings overlooking the first floor, a beer in his hand and a confused look on his face. There is a woman next to him, a stunning brunette who is sitting so close they’re practically in each other’s laps. “Alice?”

My heart thuds. My face flames. And then I see Victor is at the table, too, eyes closed as his head rests on another woman’s shoulder. She’s got an arm around him as she chats with the woman with Finn.

Bloody. Hell. And to think I was just feeling sorry for the wanker!

My partner stands up just as Gabe catches up with me. Before Finn can say anything, Gabe grabs my arm. “Hey. What happened back there?”

I glance toward the stairs. There is no woman with two-tone hair there. I dart toward the railing, just to the side of Victor (and miraculously do not punch him in the head), and lean over to scan the area.

She’s not there. Did I imagine her?

My head swims. I jump when a hand closes over my shoulder. “Alice?”

It’s Gabe. Finn is just a few feet away, and he looks . . . is that anger? Guilt? Confusion? I can’t tell. Everything blurs. Even still, I tell Gabe, “Sorry. I thought . . .” But I don’t finish that. How can I?

“What are you doing here?”

I turn to Finn, hating that I can’t pinpoint his emotions right now. Everything is too fuzzy. He’s with someone. A woman. Of course he is. It’s not . . . We’re partners. Why does this bother me? We’re partners. Adults, free to do whatever we wish.
We’re partners.
“Having a good time,” I tell him. And then I look down at his lady friend and say, “Which is what it appears you’re doing.”

I guess I’m not too fuzzy to be that not-so-nice Alice I warned him about.

“I thought you were with Mary? Doing girl time or—” Finn looks me up and down, his eyes widening at the dress of Mary’s I’m wearing.

Gabe wraps a protective arm around me. “Let’s go get another drink, huh?”

I’m tired of logic. I’m tired of feeling. I’m tired of holding it all in. “Yes. God, yes.”

“No,” Finn interjects. He’s now closing in on where I’m standing. “Are you drunk? Who the hell is this, Alice?”

“What’s going on?” the woman he’s with asks. She’s got one of those sultry voices that always annoy me when she repeats his question. “Who is this, Finn?”

But before he can tell her anything, Victor’s name is screeched so loudly my ears ring amidst already blisteringly strong music.

“YOU SON OF A BITCH!” Our mutual friend flies out of nowhere. “I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU!”

Victor creaks an eye open just as she descends upon the Van Brunt brothers’ table. His words slur right out of him. “Hallllloooooo, Mary. Didja see Alice? I think she’s wearin’ your slutty dress.”

Mary slaps him, knocking his head off of the woman’s shoulder, but it bounces down upon her rather amble bosom. The woman shouts, startled, and Victor’s eyes finally open wide. All of a sudden, chairs are scraping, people are squealing and yelling, and I’ve got my arms around Mary as I haul her backward.

Victor’s stumbling to his feet, calling her name, and Finn’s suddenly putting his body between all of us. “Okay. Hold on a minute. Mary—”

“DON’T YOU MAKE EXCUSES FOR HIM!”

The woman with my partner grabs his arm. “Finn, what is going on?” She gives us a look that even I can read correctly right now.